


Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Slings & Arrows
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Community: ds_snippets | dsc6dsnippets, Gen, Mental Breakdown, Mental Institutions, POV Third Person Limited, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1821550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geoffrey contemplates giving up Shakespeare...sort of</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deeper Than Did Ever Plummet Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the prompt "would you trade your words for freedom?" at [](http://ds-snippets.livejournal.com)

For a while, Geoffrey thought Shakespeare had given _him_ up.  _Hamlet_ evaporated from his brain, clean as a whistle, taking his sanity and a good chunk of his heart with it, and for. . .weeks, he doesn’t know how long. . .he lived in a strangely mundane, inarticulate world, barren of poetry and meaning.

Just as he was getting used to that, in a numb sort of way, the words started coming back.  He woke up one morning with “Ay, ay, Antipholus, look pale and frown. . .” on the tip of his tongue.  For a dizzy moment, he considered whether his chances for a healthy, happy future might be higher if he turned his back on the Bard, gave up the texts for good.  Walked away and became. . .a plumber or something, and of course that was beyond absurd, so he shook off the thought and sat in the dayroom reciting _Comedy of Errors_ until they came to dish out the daily round of pills.

So, yes, Shakespeare, and yes, all right, theatre, even if he has to pull it out of his ass and stick it together with chewing gum and dud checks.  But if there is one thing he _has_ given up—has had no choice but to give up—it’s the Prince of Denmark.  The text on which his bark was wrecked.

The script is heavy as marble in his hand as he puts down the phone and reads in his own scrawl: _New Burbage.  Monday, 8:00.  Oliver’s funeral._

He doesn’t have to go.  No one will care, and he doesn’t care if they do.  He could forget about the whole thing.

Or he could go, say his long-deferred goodbyes.  Drop the damned script in Oliver’s coffin, close the lid, and finally be free.  



End file.
